Intoxication by RedKite (grave mercy txt) 📕

By now a crowd had gathered in the churhyard. The November wind whistled all aroud them. The churchbell tolled in the distance. As the coffin was lowered into the ground, they all leaned in to catch one last glimpse of the polished mahogany box, a cross carved into the lid.
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," murmered the priest. He raised his hand, and the gravediggers began to fill the hole in. Even the closest relatives were too shocked to cry. Only one question penetrated the minds of everyone present there- Why would someone want to murder and innocent little girl?


She sat curled up in the velvet lined armchair, as if hiding from some invisible force. Which, in a way, she was. She checked the clock. One minute to six. Her heart rate soared. She reached for her pocket. She told herself no, but she cold not resist. She pulled out the letter. It read,


At exactly six o'clock on Thursday 9th November 1891, the world as you know it will end. Enjoy your last day alive.
Anon.

She regretted reading the letter now. It had only made her worse. She didn't believe in the supernatural. Most of the time. All that was left to do now was wait. The clock chimed six.
She sat upright, hardly daring to breathe. The waiting itself seemed to be killing her. On the sixth chime, she felt a spasm grip her chest. With a cry, she fell to the floor. Blinding, searing pain ripped through her body. She screamed. For a moment, she was sure she heard laughter. Then it all went black.


He screamed as the pain seared through his body. He knew he had a weak heart, but he had always thought that if death would come calling for him, it would be quick. But this was like no pain he had ever experienced before. Gripping the bars of his cell, he cried for help. But no one came. He was going to die, and there waas nothing anyone could do. After one last excruciating spasm of pain, he slumped on the floor, seeing and feeling nothing. He was no more.


The nurserymaid had heard the screams five minutes before, but she had paid no attention to them. That child screamed at everything. Although, it had been slightly strange the way that the screams had just stopped suddenly, not dying away as they had so often had before.
She supposed she should go and check on the child. Not that it would make any difference. Making her way along the long, twisting corridors of the mansion, she came to the door of the child's room. Taking the key out of her pocket, she inserted it into the lock. She had locked the girl in her room to show her some disapline. It wasn't like the parents showed her any. Manners and disapline, that was what that child needed, the nurserymaid thought to herself. Manners and disapline. She opened the door.
There lay the child, sprawled across her bed, her golden ringlets spread out under her head. She lay still, unmoving. Dead. The maid screamed.
She ran from the room, out of the house, and onto the moor. She had to get out. The child was dead. Nothing else could have entered her room. She was the only one with the key. It was impossible! At least, it was impossible for a being of this world...


He knocked on the door of the small, slated cottage situated on the South Penine moors of Yorkshire. The door was split into two halves, like that of a stable. The top half opened a crack, then shut. Then the whole door opened, revealing a tall, slim woman with long, auburn curls swept back from her face. Her eyes were violet, and heavily framed with thick, black eyelashes. She could not be more than twenty five.
Over her off white coloured shirt, she wore a pair of beige overalls, both crusted with grease. In her hand she carried a spanner. He wondered what a young woman could possibly want with such an object. And wearing trousers?! It was all very unladylike! Yet underneath the grimy, inferior clothes she wore, she appeared sophisticated and radient.
Her eyes looked him up and down, thouroughly noticing his appearence. From his shock of black hair, dark eyes and flashing smile, right down to his black patent well polished shoes, she missed nothing. He smiled at her in his charming manner.
"Miss DeLeon," he said, taking her hand. May I call you Katriona?"
"Miss DeLeon will do just fine," she replied curtly, opening the door wider and gesturing that he come inside.
As soon as he stepped through the threshold, he gasped at the number of objects that cluttered the room. From globes marking out the position of the British Empire to exquisite pieces of cloth draped over aeroplane engines, this room had it all. Particularly aeorplane engines, it seemed.
Katriona DeLeon stared at him intently with her piercing violet eyes. "Would you care for refreshment? Tea, cake perhaps?"
"Thank you, Miss DeLeon, could I possibly have a coffee? You see, I despise tea."
"Oh, yes, of course."
She turned, and walked through a door into what he assumed was a kitchen. He sat down on one of two sofas in a corner of a room, a coffee table in between. He heard a kettle whistling. A moment later, she returned with two mugs of steaming coffee in her hands. Sitting down on the sofa opposite him, she passed him his coffee whilst sipping her own. Her eyes neaver left his face.
"So," he said, "Before we get down to buisness, what exactly do you do, aside from being a detective?" She set her mug down.
"I am an inventor, of sorts," she replied. "You see these piles of junk around me? Well, I collect them all from various places, ans store them here untill I come up with an idea. You see, I have quite an incredible knack, I believe, for dreaming up a device that will save someone out there a lot of time and energy. For example, only recently did I sell someone a device that fetched me quite a tidy sum. The money lasts me out till my next case. Usually," she added quieter.
"How much money, precisely?"
"I'd rather not say. Now, back to buisness! Why have you come here today?"
"I have a case for you."
"A case, you say?" Katriona DeLeon leaned forward, her chin resting in her hands. "Most engaging." She sat for a moment, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. Suddenly, she sprang up, and walked over to a wardrobe across the other side of the room. She opened the door, and brought out an ornate wooden box, covered in dust. She blew on the top of it, and moved back to the sofa. As she opened the box, he quickly leaned over to see what was inside.
The box was filled to the brim with notebooks, all bearing titles like, "The Delila Cook Case", or "The Toby Lodge Inquisition". She pulled out a blank notebook, and opened it.
"My Casebooks," she announced. "The Dectective side of my occupation has become rather sparse recently, and I've neglected my poor notebooks." She hugged it to her chest. Then, she set the notebook on her lap, took an inky fountin pen out of her pocket, and laid it on the paper.
"Firstly, your name?"
"Arthur Strand."
"Purpose of visit?"
"Murder."
"Of whom, may I ask?"
"Natalie Letitia Deanswood."
"Place of death?"
"The Grand Hotel, London."
"Date of death?"
"Thursday 9th November."
"Time of death?"
"Exactly six o'clock.
"Thank you. Now this is the most important question, so I will ask you to answer in as much detail as possible. What, as far as you can tell, was the method of death?"
"Well, this is the problem, Miss DeLeon, we don't atually know. It appears she just... Dropped down dead."
"I see. Well, Mr Strand,if there's nothing more you can tell me, then would you mind leaving? I don't mean to be rude, but you have given me a lot to think about. Would you mind if I came down to London on the train tomorrow? To see the scene of the crime."
"Yes, of course. Goodbye Miss DeLeon. Thank you for your time." Arthur Strand lifted his top hat, and waklked out the door. Katriona DeLeon smiled to herself. However it progressed from here, life was about to get a lot more interesting...


Later that day, Katriona sat in her armchair, lost on thought. This case would without a doubt be tricky, but stimulating. A person dropping down dead? She had several theories. Althpugh, she had not nearly as many as some of her previous cases. Katriona knew from past experience that it was a huge mistake to theorise before she had data. Inevitably she would begin to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. Even so... Yes, this case was going to be stimulating.
A few hours later, Katriona's trance was broken by a loud banging on her door. She stood up, to go and answer it, but before she got the chance the door flew open, and banged against the wall noisily. There stood a stout old lady about the age of thirty with thinning brown hair peeking out from under her mop cap. A nurserymaid?. She didn't look too pleased.
"Well, you took your time to find,"she said in a sarcastic voice. Her accent stated very strongly that she was from Yorkshire. "What is the point of setting up a detective agency on a moor where no one can possibly find it?! I know these moors like the back of my hand, yet I was over them a day and a night looking for you!"
There was a point. If anyone came looking for her to try and harm her, then they would not expect a young girl of twenty three living in a farmhouse cottage in Yorkshire to be running a practically world class detective agency. That was what she told herself. That and the fact she was atually quite sentimental, and was fond of her dear Yorkshire cottage. She had all sorts of clients here, but this one seemed like one of the more difficult ones.
"Madam," she said, trying to calm her down, "I am so sorry for your inconvinence. What seems to be the problem?"
"Don't you sweet talk me, Miss DeLeon, this is not the time. We need to get straight to the point here!" Oh dear. So she did mind.
"Why have you come to me then?"
"I'm here to report a murder, Miss DeLeon."
"A murder? Oh, most fascinating..."
"Miss DeLeon, please remember, this is not a parlour game! This is serious!"
"Quite, quite. Just a moment." She reached down to pick up her note book from where she had left it on the coffee table.